Haunted by the painful cry to Major Tom and the lonely Ziggy Stardust lament, I thought David Bowie was indeed a man who fell to earth; a man with something we would never fully understand or tire of, an artist asking us to reach higher and break through the false limits of our imagination.

I was a young American, going through changes forced to face the strangeness within myself, desperately working to accept whatever modern love was. I wanted to be Bowie’s little China girl when he pulled out the deeper vocals. Bowie was a presence, a mood, and a flavor for our personal life-soundtracks that begged us to relish our differences and our similarities, find our bluesy notes and swing them to a funky beat. His passion invited us to be rebels, striking new poses of fashion and expression under the pressure of his androgynous gaze in those golden years of Bowie’s fame.

I never met the man. I never saw David Bowie perform in concert, but he touched my life as he did so many others, spanning generations, cultures, and continents. I am so glad I had an opportunity to sing his songs, dance to his music, and recognize his beauty.

Bowie was a hero for more than one day and I admit the news of his passing gave me an all time low. Bye bye Bowie and thank you. I cherish your gift and I will listen carefully to your final album Black Star.